A Republic May Be Called

Paris Is A Sum Total. Paris Is The Ceiling Of The Human Race. All This Prodigious City Is An Epitome Of Dead And Living Manners And Customs. He Who Sees Paris, Seems To See All History Through With The Sky And Constellations In The Intervals.

. . .where There Is No More Hope, Song Remains.

Oh Lord! Open The Doors Of Night For Me So That I May Leave This Place And Disappear.

He Who Contemplates The Depths Of Paris Is Seized With Vertigo. Nothing Is More Fantastic. Nothing Is More Tragic. Nothing Is More Sublime.

To Think Is Of Itself To Be Useful; It Is Always And In All Cases A Striving Toward God.